The trees are old. I sit here under them and wonder what stories they would tell if they could.
Others would have sat where I sit now. People who were clever and beautiful and witty and genius. Or simple and kind and loving and great. But they went. And I shall go too.
And the river will keep flowing and the trees will withhold their majestic silence. The world will go on. My children will forget me and the world would never remember that I even existed.
What folly it is to imagine that we matter! In this great universe we are as significant as a scurrying ant.
And how ridiculous to sacrifice our eternity for a temporary applause! To chase a rabbit down a long hole only to realize that the rabbit wasn’t ours anyway. And to mutate our face in order to conform only to realize that the mirror was distorted in the first place.
I sit here and I realize, people sat here and they went but the seeds they threw have taken roots.